Ballpoint

This was never a choice.
Held up at ballpoint, ink stained
Like a tattoo smeared across my veins
Like graffiti on a high way
No fear of the collision.
This is Hemingway’s Old Man
With his skin pressed
Open
Only to return a skeleton of what was.
He’s still better for it.
The sound of scribbles pieced together
Into a beautiful tangle
A mess I’ve learned to press
Together
Into solidarity. A foundation
That concedes experience
With each purposed step.